We've Learned the Hard Way
by LuckyLadybug
Summary: What would you do if you found a relic that was capable of healing people, but was swiftly deteriorating? Wait for something that could preserve it? Or use it to heal one more person? This is the dilemma faced by Carl Kolchak.


**Kolchak: The Night Stalker**

**We've Learned the Hard Way**

**By Lucky_Ladybug**

**Notes: The characters from the show are not mine. Any other characters, and the story, are mine! The plot, however, is greatly adapted from the beautiful and haunting **_**Mysterious Ways**_** episode **_**The Greater Good**_**. In one way, I feel ashamed to have lifted the plot and plopped it down here, complete with many of the very twists from the episode. Usually I only borrow a few twists and turns, not the majority of a whole plot. But in another way, I have no regrets. It just makes too perfect a **_**Kolchak**_** story. And I have tried to add my own spins wherever possible.**

Humanity has been searching for an all-purpose cure-all almost since the beginning of time. Antiques throughout the centuries have been said off and on to have miraculous healing properties. Many of the religious relics from the Dark Ages are among them. Some are nothing more than fables or hoaxes. Others . . . well . . . who knows?

What if you came into possession of such an object? What if you found that it could heal anything, from the smallest cut to the more gruesome and painful disease?

And what if it was quickly deteriorating? What if it would soon be entirely gone without some level of preservation?

Would you leave it alone, waiting for weeks for that special preservative to come via an exclusive package from Russia so millions of people could be saved?

Or would you forget about all of that and use the last remaining particles to save just one more life?

xxxx

It was Tuesday, September 22nd, and Anthony Albert Vincenzo, dear, beloved grizzly bear of an editor that he is, had just deposited my latest assignment on my desk. I was not as pleased about it as he was.

"Alright, Kolchak. I've got something that should be right up your alley."

I peered at him from under the brim of my always-classy straw hat. "And what's that, according to Tony Vincenzo?" I returned. "Chicago's largest daisy festival? Or perhaps a large-scale tea party."

I could see his eyes rolling in that particular way that means he is not only unimpressed by my wit, he wonders why I'm still collecting a paycheck every month. "Watch it, Kolchak, or you'll be covering every tea party this town's got to offer," he threatened.

I took my feet off my desk and finally had a look at the doggy treat of information that had just come in. "They found the entombed body of some ancient Christian monk in British Columbia and they're bringing it and the fellow's personal effects to Chicago for a stay at the Art Institute?!" I looked up at Tony in disbelief. "Tony, what kind of a snore is this?! No one reads pieces about entombed Christian monks!" I shook the paper in his face as I rose from my chair. "They'll either skip it altogether or fall asleep on the first line!"

"Just be glad it's something to write about," Tony growled. "It's short, sweet, and completely harmless."

"Unlike the last draft I handed you," I finished for him.

"Exactly!" Tony snapped.

"Which you tore up," I interjected. I was still sore about that.

"Kolchak . . ." Tony gave me one of those appalled, _I can't believe you_ looks. "The Devil making a deal with a politician? The politician somehow taking over the body of a big black dog to murder each one of his competitors? His wife later disappearing with said big black dog, after you used Miss Emily's Holy Water to break the spell?" His voice raised several hundred decibels. "What part of that do you think I could print without getting us either sued or thrown in the funny farm?!"

"It's all the truth, Vincenzo," I said in aggravation.

"Kolchak, nobody wants to be scared out of their pants by tales of Fido really being the Devil's advocate in disguise!" Tony glowered at me. "Now get down to the Art Institute and start talking to dead monks!"

I glowered back as I removed my camera and tape recorder from the rack. There was no arguing with Tony when he was in this mood. Rather than waste my breath I decided that, for the time being, I would do what he wanted.

"And don't come to me with a story about the monk talking back," Tony snarled.

"Haha," I retorted as I stormed to the door. "You're a scream, Vincenzo. A real scream. I bet all the ghosts and ghouls sit around laughing at you and your skepticism that rivals even my dear Dana Scully's."

"_KOLCHAK!"_

"I'm going, I'm going!"

Alright, so I've seen a few _X-Files_ reruns. I'm occasionally curious to see how the shows of today handle the supernatural. Usually they get it all wrong. But every now and then they hit it right on. Whether that's just their unfortunate dumb luck or because the writers have had personal encounters of their own, I couldn't say.

For their sake, I hope it's the former.

xxxx

Anyone can tell you that I'm not a connoisseur of the arts. I couldn't tell a Picasso from a Van Gogh if you paid me. (Although if the artist is short one ear, it's probably Van Gogh. That's the extent of my knowledge about that unfortunate soul. Maybe one of Vincenzo's great-great-grandfathers was always yelling in both of his ears and he cut one off hoping that would reduce the noise.)

The Art Institute is not one of my favorite places. Some people can spend the whole day in there. I'm lucky if I can last an hour. And whenever I venture inside that cockatrice's den, it seems that everyone else starts praying I won't make it even that long.

This time around it seemed that I was the last employee of the fourth estate to get the memo about our dearly departed and recently rediscovered monk. His identity was a total mystery. He had been found in a sealed cave marked only by a cross carved into the stone. Inside, our noble clergy had been placed in a tomb with what we are to assume were his most prized—and quite possibly his only—material belongings. One worn Bible, one simple crucifix, and one unknown piece of graying cloth.

The cloth idly fascinated me. Why would a monk—or for that matter, anyone—want to take such a ratty old thing with them to the grave? What sort of significance could it possibly have?

I was in the process of trying to rope one of the overseers of the exhibit to talk to me when I learned the reason. Workers scurried around behind us, removing items from crates and setting them aside for display. The harried and lovely brunette attempting to pay attention to both the crates and me was failing miserably.

"I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?" she said, brushing her long and curly locks away from her face. "Cul-de-sack?"

"Kolchak!" I yelled over the noise. "Carl Kolchak, INS!"

"Oh, of course. Well, Mr. Kolchak, this really isn't a good time for . . ." A crate spilled over at her feet and she cried out in surprise. "Can't you be more careful?! This material is priceless!" She bent down, reaching to scoop what I could now identify as the threadbare cloth back into its clear, plastic, airtight container. Once the box was closed she straightened, holding it in her arms.

That was when things got strange. Her eyes widened and she gasped.

"What is it?" I asked. I was expecting to hear that she had forgotten something of enormous importance.

"My back!" she exclaimed. "I've never gone a day without some level of back pain, for almost fifteen years. None of the doctors I went to could fix it. And now, all of a sudden, there's no pain at all!" She stared at the container in her hands. "It was like I could feel it leaving me as soon as I touched this cloth!"

I was _not_ expecting to hear that.

Neither were the other reporters. But they knew a good story when they heard one. They crowded around, more than eager for the details. They almost crowded me _out,_ and I was the one our miracle woman had been talking to. At long last, however, everyone got a piece of pie.

Of course, I don't fall for just anything hook, line, and sinker. I have to keep _some_ skepticism available or I'd turn into a paranoid sensationalist, jumping in fear of my own shadow. Not that my shadow can't be pretty scary at times.

But I started investigating. And once I found out that after touching the cloth, both a guy who was legally blind without his glasses and a kid with a broken arm were healed in Canada, I started to think we might really have something here.

And one thing I knew for sure.

Tony was not going to be happy. And even though he rarely meets a pie he doesn't like, I knew that he certainly was not going to want so much as a crumb of _this_ pie.

xxxx

Tony was his typical self when I gave him the potentially good news. He paced the floor, glaring up at me every few steps.

"Tony, don't you understand what we might have here?!" I exclaimed. "At least three people have been restored to full health when this cloth was involved! This could be something that can save thousands, even millions!"

"Because of three people," Tony frowned. "Kolchak, do you have any idea how many religious hoaxes go around every year?" He stopped wearing a hole in the carpet and wildly gestured through the air instead. "This is probably just the work of some new Bible-thumping fraud!"

"But they didn't want it to get publicized," I protested. "You have no idea how many people I had to interview before I found out about the guy and the boy in Canada. According to my sources, they brought the exhibit out here to the Windy City because they wanted to see if it would happen again. And now it has, with this girl!"

"And now every reporter in town is talking about it," Tony said. "I just saw on the news that people are lining up in droves to touch that cloth!" He shook his head. "Kolchak, this is just going to end up breaking a lot of people's hearts. I don't want any part of it."

"Just come out to the museum and see for yourself for once," I shot back. "That won't hurt you, unless you're so afraid to give up being a cynic that you'd rather cower in your office and ignore it!"

Tony paused. "You know, anyone who really does get healed probably wasn't even hurt in the first place."

"Maybe," I said. "But I checked on every one of the people reported as healed so far. Their doctors all confirm that their infirmities were real! And now they're well!" I pointed at the darkened television screen. "We'll probably find the same thing about almost anyone waiting in line now.

"Come on, Tony. You used to be a reporter, in some long ago ancient time. Show some interest in following a story. Just think about it. Either way, we have news here! If it's a fraud, fine. We should expose them for it." Now I paused. "But if it's real . . ." I gave him my best pleading look. "Tony, just think what that would mean!"

Tony stared back at me for a long moment. I could tell he was weakening. In spite of himself, he was curious. Somewhere underneath all of that editorial responsibility and lack of interest was the heart of a journalist. And a journalist can never completely give up being curious.

Maybe, even, some part of him wanted to believe.

"Alright, Kolchak," he relented. "We'll go. But _I'll_ decide whether there's anything worth printing."

"Very well, Vincenzo," I returned in a grand tone. "And tomorrow my story will be on the front page of every newspaper in Illinois." I drew an arm around his shoulders as I led him to the door. He went, but frowned as he did.

"I'd better not regret this," he muttered.

"You know, Tony, _you_ assigned me to this story," I couldn't resist reminding him. "A short, sweet, _harmless_ story."

"I ought to have my head examined," Tony moaned.

xxxx

Tony wasn't exaggerating about people lining up by the droves. When we got to the Art Institute, the human sea stretched far beyond the doors and even into the parking lot.

It was a strange, even sobering, sight. While a great number of the crowd looked perfectly healthy, some waving their reporters' notebooks left and right in the air, others were obviously there hoping for the healing power of the cloth to work on them. People on crutches, in wheelchairs, some wearing scarves or possibly wigs. . . .

Tony looked uncomfortable at the display. And while I was too, I wasn't about to admit it. I also wasn't about to wait in that line.

"Come on," I said as I got out of my trusty yellow Mustang. "We'll go in the back way and get a bird's eye-view of what's going on."

"Kolchak!" Tony hissed. "Can we do that? We might get arrested. Think how that would look—a wire service's editor sneaking in with his obviously daffy reporter!"

"We won't get arrested, Tony," I replied. "Now come on, before someone sees us." That was unlikely to happen, as everyone was focused on the line and how fast it was moving. But if they did happen to catch a glance at us as we weaved our way towards the back of the building, they might decide to follow suit. And the last thing I wanted to do was call attention to us. Then we might never get inside.

A steady string of muttering and growling met my ears. But despite the fact that I'd seen a large dog wandering down the sidewalk, I was fairly sure that it was still Tony Vincenzo following me and not a Newfoundland (or whatever it was). Tony may have the uncanny ability to sound like your average vicious animal; however, I would doubt that your average vicious animal has the ability to form human words. Particularly the kind I was hearing then.

We came out in one of the back corridors. I led my faithful follower into the large display room as soon as I had the chance. The lovely young brunette from earlier was holding a plastic container—the one that contained the mysterious and fraying cloth. Those at the front of the line were clamoring around her, begging for a chance to touch the ancient sash. And she, for some reason, looked distressed. I wanted to remedy that. As well as to find out what was going on.

"Never fear, Carl Kolchak is here!" I announced as I came upon her from behind. She jumped a mile. So did Tony's pulse rate.

She turned, her _Brittany_ nameplate catching the light above. "Oh . . . Mr. Kolchak." Her voice was taut.

"The museum seems to be getting a lot of business," I observed. "And this exhibit must be the most popular one it has right now. So what's the trouble?"

"That _is_ the trouble, I'm afraid," she said. "I've told people they have to be gentle with the cloth, that it's too old and fragile for too much attention, but it's so hard to get them to listen. They all want to touch it and be healed." She indicated the plastic box. "I don't know what to do. At this rate there won't be any left."

I peered inside. The cloth did look smaller than before. And the bits of dirt scattered through the case were, I supposed, actually miniscule parts of fabric. It _was_ in bad shape.

"It isn't adverse to having its picture taken, is it?" I thought it polite to ask.

Brittany finally gave an uneasy laugh. "It shouldn't be," she said. "Reporters have been tramping in and out of here all day, along with _them._" She nodded towards the hopeful people looking to be healed. Her eyes flickered with sadness.

Tony stared into the box as I snapped my photos. "It doesn't look like much," he frowned.

"Would you, if you were as old as it is?" I returned. "Or him?" I pointed at the monk's mortal remains, sealed behind glass.

Tony regarded that, unmoved. "You said he was holding the cloth. It didn't do anything for him."

I shrugged. "Well, maybe raising the dead is too much, even for a miraculous healing cloth."

A waving hand got in my way and I promptly backed up. "Oh, excuse me." But the limping woman seemed not to hear, so intent was she on touching the cloth. And when she did she straightened, her eyes wide.

"My leg!" she cried. "My leg feels normal again!"

Tony crossed his arms. "It could all be for show," he objected to me. "There's no way of knowing she really had a bum leg."

"We can easily find out," I shot back at him. I hurried after the ecstatic woman. "Excuse me, ma'am, can I have your name? Carl Kolchak, press."

She looked at me with excited eyes. "You're writing an article about this?! I'll tell you anything you want to know!"

While I was busy getting my exclusive, Tony was boredly starting to march up and down at the side of the line. I'm not sure if he was looking for an obvious fraud or a sincere case. But not that far down he stumbled across someone he knew.

"Billy?" He stopped, doing a doubletake. "You're the last guy I thought I'd see here. Don't tell me you believe these crazy stories about the healing cloth!"

Billy Marloe, an old buddy of Tony's from way back (and a fellow patient at Tony's gastro-intestinal specialist), looked up and laughed. "Well, I figured there was nothing wrong with trying. I see you're here to try to debunk the 'publicity stunt', Vincenzo! Still the old skeptic."

"Somebody has to keep his feet on the ground during all this hullabaloo," Tony said.

"Guess so," Billy shrugged. "I'm objective, mind you. But I could sure use a cure for this ulcer." He patted his substantial belly. "It's been giving me heck again today." He perked up. "Hey, why don't you join me? We can test this miracle cloth together."

"Thanks, but no thanks," Tony said. "I'll wait and get your report on it later."

"Suit yourself." Billy grinned. "I've set up an appointment with the doc for after I get out of here. I wanna have him check immediately to see if there's any change." He frowned, studying his position in the line. "I hope I get to the front in time. . . ."

"Good luck with that," Tony grunted.

I had finished my interview with Marilyn Powloski, the ecstatic lady, by the time Billy reached the exhibit. Tony came over to stand by me. "Well, Carl, what do you make of this madhouse now?" he wondered.

"I can honestly say that I'm still not convinced it's all a stunt," I said. "Of course with so many there's bound to be a few rotten apples. That doesn't mean they're all bad. Or that the cloth doesn't work." I nodded to Billy, who was just stepping away from touching the crumbling material. "Your buddy there looks pleased with the service."

Tony shrugged. "Could be mind over matter. He thinks it'll help, so in a way it does. At least it gives him peace of mind."

Billy ambled over to us. "Ah, I feel like a new man," he declared.

"No more pain?" Tony demanded.

"No more pain," Billy echoed. "And I'm off to the doc. Hello, Kolchak. I see Tony here is still keeping you around."

"Yes, I'm always turning up," I grinned.

"Like a bad penny," Tony quipped.

"Witty as ever," Billy chuckled. He bade us goodbye and strolled out. Looking much better than when he'd arrived, I might add.

Tony watched him, shaking his head. "Carl, haven't you had enough of this circus yet?" he sighed.

I snapped another picture. "If it just continues in this vein, I guess there's no hope you'll even entertain the idea that it could be real."

"Darn straight," Tony growled. "I haven't seen anything that can't be logically explained. Please, Kolchak, let's get out of here!"

I turned to look at him. "'Please'? You're getting desperate. Very well, O Restless One, we shall make our departure."

Tony was visibly relieved as he followed me back through the museum and out the back doors. He was so intent on getting out of there that he didn't realize he had snagged himself on the empty wooden crate just outside the doors until we were back at the car. "What the . . ."

I glanced over. Tony was holding up his left hand, staring in disbelief at a jagged cut across the back. "How did _this_ happen?!"

"We could go back inside and get the cloth to fix you up," I suggested.

Tony gave me a sour look. "It's just a scratch. Save the cloth for people with big problems. Like believing a cloth can heal them in the first place."

I threw up my hands in defeat. "Alright, alright. We won't go back."

Tony nodded in approval and climbed into the car.

xxxx

Back at the good old INS (emphasis on the "old"), Tony tended to his battle scars. While he wrestled with the antiseptic and extracted a bandage from its thoroughly stubborn wrapper, I took the liberty of turning on the TV set in his office. I knew what would be on, and I knew he wouldn't like it, but I wanted to see what they would say.

"_The people of the greater Chicago area lined up at the Art Institute today for a once-in-a-lifetime chance to touch The Monk's Cloth, as it has been dubbed. Everyone who managed to get through the throng came away claiming to have been miraculously healed by the cloth."_

The scene cut to footage of several people crying out in joy, including Marilyn. Then the lovely reporter returned, standing outside a local physician's office.

"_We're here talking with William Marloe, who touched the cloth and is just coming out from an appointment with his doctor to discuss his ulcer. Mr. Marloe, would you mind telling us what your doctor said?"_

Billy didn't look at all surprised to have a microphone stuck in his face. He just grinned broadly, like a cat who'd swallowed the biggest canary in existence.

"_Clean bill of health,"_ he reported. _"No ulcer!"_

"_Is it possible that it's from the methods you've been using to treat it for the last weeks?"_

"_It wouldn't heal up just like that,"_ Billy said. _"I went to see my doctor right before I tried the cloth and it was still there. Now it's gone!"_

"Hey, Tony," I called, sitting up on the couch. "Did you hear that?"

"I heard." Tony was, in fact, standing in the doorway of the connecting bathroom, making sure that the wrapping on his hand was secure. He was frowning deeply, but there was something else in his expression too. Uncertainty? Or perhaps fear.

I had no chance to ask him about it, however, as what the reporter said next swept away all other thoughts.

"_There have been countless other stories just like Mr. Marloe's,"_ she announced. _"And the people keep coming. Airports, bus depots, and train stations are jammed with people hoping to travel to Chicago for a chance to have a miracle of their own. But Brittany Forrester of the Art Institute is very concerned about this influx of traffic."_

The picture changed to a close-up of a very worried Brittany. _"The cloth is so old that all the exposure to human touch, even to oxygen itself, is destroying it,"_ she said. _"After today, it's almost all gone right now."_

The camera focused on the container with the cloth inside. If it had looked small in the afternoon, by now it was little more than a pinprick of its former self. Tony cringed behind me.

"_We've sent for a special preservative that will keep it from disintegrating further and still allow people to touch it. Unfortunately, the only amount available is in Russia. It won't be here by tomorrow."_ The camera was back on Brittany now. Her eyes were filled with sorrow and regret. _"Until the preservative arrives, no one else can touch the cloth. Unless it's properly treated, there's only enough left for one more person. I'm so sorry."_

I snapped off the television set. "How do you like that?" I couldn't refrain from exclaiming in disgust. "One of those religious relics really seems to be genuine, but it's rotting away with every life it heals!"

Tony shook his head, crossing back to his desk. "Maybe it's for the best, Kolchak."

"For the best?!" I shot to my feet in utter disbelief. "People are being cured from terminal illnesses and the destruction of the cloth might be for the best?!"

Tony sat down, tiredly rubbing his eyes. "Think about it, Carl. The more lives that cloth heals, the more people are going to put their faith in it instead of in God. Do you think God can't do the very same stuff for those people without a visual aid necessary?"

"Well, no, of course He can, but . . ." I groped for some salvation for my argument. "By that logic, do you think those people would have been healed at all if it wasn't God's will? Maybe He wanted the cloth to be found! And if He did, do you think He'd want it to be snuffed out, just like that?!"

"I don't know, Kolchak. I can't speak for Him." Tony leaned back in his chair. "Just leave it alone. Please, just this once, leave it alone and let it take whatever course it's going to. There's nothing you can do about it, anyway."

"I can write about it!" I retorted. "Tony, we were there! We saw it! And your old friend, Billy Marloe, he was healed by it!"

". . . What can you say that isn't already being said?"

"I'll think of something," I insisted. "I always do."

Tony sighed. "Fine, Carl, fine. Go write about it, if it's that important to you."

I headed for the doorway and then stopped, looking back. "You're really not going to protest?" I said in amazement. "Who are you and just what have you done with Anthony Vincenzo?"

"What point would there be in protesting?" Tony shot back. "The story's out everywhere by now. It's not taboo; it's big news. Important news."

I considered that and nodded. "You do have a point. And that means I'd better hurry and get my own spin on it before any more time goes by." I grinned as I opened the door. "Wait up for me, Tony. It'll be ready for the early morning wire!"

I was so fired up with ideas that it didn't occur to me that Tony's weariness might be being caused by something other than the long day and being forced to accept that a religious relic was actually healing people. I didn't learn otherwise until I had the copy finished and ready to be put to bed.

xxxx

Ron and Miss Emily returned sometime during the evening, while I was pounding away at the keyboard. And while Miss Emily was very excited and going on about how the cloth had healed some of her friends, Ron wasn't sure what to make of it all.

"How could a piece of cloth do all that?" he frowned.

"Because it's been touched by the divine," Miss Emily said firmly. "You believe it, don't you, Carl?"

I glanced up from where I was printing my first draft. "It certainly doesn't seem likely that it's all a coincidence, Miss Emily," I admitted.

"And what's that?" Ron peered at the pages I was removing from the old printer. "Your newest lining for the wastebasket?"

"Har har. You know, Ron, it's a shame that cloth can't heal your attitude," I said. "This is going to be a prize-winner. Even Vincenzo will agree."

"Now _that_ I have to see," Ron said dryly.

"Tony?" I boomed as I turned and pranced into his office. "Tony, wait till you see this. Tony . . . ?"

Tony was slumped over his desk, sound asleep.

Well, I _had_ thought it strange that he hadn't come to see what all the commotion with Ron and Miss Emily was.

I exhaled in exasperation. "Tony, Tony. I told you to wait up!" Setting the pages on the edge of his desk, I went over closer and gripped the massive shoulder. Waking Tony is generally akin to rousing a grizzly bear, with rousing a grizzly being perhaps the less dangerous option, but I was bound and determined to get my story into the morning edition. And I needed Tony to do that.

Well, unless I put it on the wire without his approval, but getting that approval is a rare event. If I think Tony will actually agree, I want that as a sort of badge of achievement.

As it was, Tony didn't wake up or even stir. Frowning, I pushed him back from the desk. "Come on, Vincenzo. You can snooze after you read my Pulitzer-winning article."

It was then, however, that I realized Tony wasn't just having a normal sleep break. He looked agonized and his face was completely flushed. He was running a fever, a bad one. And he wasn't waking up.

"Tony?!" I rested the back of my hand against his forehead and then grabbed for the phone.

"What's wrong?" Ron exclaimed in concern from the doorway.

I barely glanced at him, preferring to dial 911 instead.

"Oh Ron! Mr. Vincenzo is ill!" Miss Emily cried as she came over as well.

"I hope it isn't catching," Ron worried.

Thankfully, the dispatcher came on right then, so I was able to tune him out.

I'm not the sort of person who goes running to the doctor for every little thing. Really, I try to avoid going as much as possible. But I can generally recognize when something's bad enough to warrant a trip to the clinic.

This was bad enough.

xxxx

One of the many things I hate about hospitals is the waiting time. I must have paced up and down that floor enough times to break it clean through before the doctors had any idea what we were dealing with. And _then,_ it took several more hours while they tried to bring it under control.

Ron and Miss Emily lingered for a while in their concern, but at last conceding defeat, Ron decided the best option would be to take Miss Emily home and wait for an update. Miss Emily didn't like the idea, but she was more exhausted than she wanted to acknowledge, so she agreed—with the excuse that Ron needed to go home and get some rest.

You may wonder why I stayed and waited alone through all of those other ungodly hours. Wouldn't it have been just as well for me to also go home and wait for a call?

In my case, no. I don't like going home; I do it as little as possible. My apartment is a place to sleep and not much else. I even take all of my meals away from there. The INS office feels more like home to me than the place where I pay my rent. And Tony is a big part of the INS, growls and roars and all. I couldn't feature myself going back there, either, when I didn't know what was going on with him.

So I stayed until a physician trudged wearily into the waiting room, removing his mask as he came over to me.

"Well?" I demanded. My frayed nerves and impatience were really starting to show through by this time. "How is he? What is it he caught—some new strain of flu?"

The doctor sighed, also removing his glasses. "It's some sort of fast-acting poison," he said. "It looks like it entered his system through a cut on his hand. Do you know what happened there?"

"A cut?" I rocked back, still reeling from the news about the poison. "Well, he scratched himself on a crate from the Art Institute, but . . ."

That was when it hit me. "Wait a minute. The monk might have been in that crate!"

"Monk?" The doctor stared at me blankly for a moment, but then stiffened. "You mean the one with the cloth?"

"That's right, the one with the cloth." I frowned. Could the traces of whatever poison killed the monk have lingered on the body and come off in the crate? None of the researchers who had found it had ever touched it without protective gloves. And the cloth itself would have been immune to the poison.

"Frankly, Mr. Kolchak . . ." The physician's words snapped me back to attention. "We've never seen this kind of poison before. And if we can't figure out what it is and how to make an antidote, well . . ." He shook his head.

"Well, figure out what it is!" I cried, my voice rising and gaining an edge. Everyone in the waiting room was looking our way now. "Make the antidote!"

"It's not that simple. The lab is already working on it, but . . ." I could clearly see the sympathy and regret in the doctor's eyes. It was the same regret I had seen in Brittany's. "Mr. Vincenzo may not last long enough for us to find out."

It was a cold arrow slamming into my gut. You'd think I'd be prepared to hear something like that, considering how often I'm around death, but I wasn't.

I guess there's some things you can never prepare for.

"He might die? Tony?" I stared at the man blankly, in disbelief. As the words fully sank in, my voice came down in volume. "How long does he have?"

"I can't say. The poison is working fast. He might be dead within the hour."

"Hour . . ." I swallowed the ball of cotton in my throat. Funny thing about cotton in the throat—no matter how often you swallow it, it always magically reappears.

"I'm sorry." I could see he was, too. "Is there any family that should be notified?"

"He has a sister." I was speaking numbly now, almost on autopilot.

"I'll see that she's told." The doctor turned, quietly walking away.

I watched him go, up that long, endless hall and through the doors at the end. _Intensive Care Unit._

I turned away, still in a fog. Tony . . . dying? It was unreal. Tony couldn't die. Even though he was always griping and moaning about his ulcer and his high blood pressure and every other ailment I was always making worse, he wasn't in that bad of health. And now, to think that some mysterious poison from an age-old monk was killing him thanks to a stupid twist of fate . . .

I stiffened. Maybe the cloth hadn't gotten to the monk in time to save him, but there was still a chance it could save Tony. Brittany had said there was enough for one more person to be healed.

_One more. . . ._

I started to walk towards the door but then stopped. Could I really take the remainder of the cloth and use it on Tony when there were so many people waiting for a chance to touch it and be healed? There had to be enough left of the cloth for the preservative to preserve. It wouldn't be able to do anything on dust.

But Tony would be dead by the time the preservative could get here. It could take weeks. Tony probably didn't have one hour.

I turned away, slamming my fist into the wall. Several people jumped, but no one seemed that surprised. They had all heard the doctor's news. What they didn't realize was the internal conflict now raging in my heart and soul.

Tony, versus hundreds, thousands, easily millions of people.

One irascible, beastly old editor, admittedly one with a heart of gold, up against mothers, daughters, sons, fathers, brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, lovers, friends.

Friends. . . .

Sure, Tony and I had our squabbles, rows, and drag-out fights. Sure, he made me so mad half the time that I wished he would just go away and let me alone so I could publish my paranormal findings to the world. I had been fuming over that story on the politician's deal with the Devil just earlier that day.

I'd been thinking on the man's words, too, when he had tried to tempt me to go over to the Dark Side. He had tried to use my frustrations about Tony to convince me to join him. And I won't deny that some of his words struck a chord with me, especially when he talked of how I could be a hotshot reporter in New York again, just like I've wanted for years.

Still, I knew I didn't want to have my success that way. If he was willing to literally sell his soul, I wasn't. My soul is one of the few valuable things I own and I'm never about to give it up without a fight.

As for Tony, well . . . as much as I grumped and growled and sometimes wanted him out of my hair, I knew that if Tony really went away, I'd miss him. With my luck I'd probably even get saddled with an editor who was far worse. At least somewhere, deep down, I knew Tony was always trying to look out for me. And I appreciated it, on some level.

I had brought this on him, in a way. That stupid crate wouldn't have hurt him if I hadn't dragged him off to the Art Institute. This was a chance to make that right, to finally do something for him other than to bring him ulcers and high blood pressure.

I could try to rationalize it like that, but I knew I was really selfish.

In the end, even though I had the chance to be rid of him, I just couldn't let him go.

I didn't want to lose my friend any more than any of those other millions of people out there wanted to lose theirs.

And in the end, the one won out over the millions.

I turned and fled into the night, heading for my Mustang.

I had a piece of cloth to steal.

xxxx

At that time of night, the Art Institute was closed and had been closed for a long time. Even so, I knew the place was highly guarded, with night watchmen and the top alarm systems in the country. With the best of luck, I'd still have only seconds to break in, grab the cloth, and run out ahead of the guards.

But I've become quite an expert at smashing glass in the quickest ways possible. Not to mention that all that running from things that go bump in the night has kept me in excellent physical condition for my age.

I had a sledgehammer in the trunk of my car. I started carrying it around because honestly, you just never know when something like that might come in handy. So I dragged it out, sent the glass flying in all directions, and leaped in through the window even as the alarms sounded in my ears. I had made sure to break the window closest to the exhibit I wanted.

I also smashed the glass door behind which was the airtight container housing the last remaining scrap of cloth. Ignoring the jagged slivers, I hauled out the little box and tore for the window, even as I heard the guards stampeding down the hall.

"Hey, you! Stop!" one of them yelled. "Stop or I'll shoot!"

A bullet sailed past my shoulder, dangerously close, really. Clutching the box under my arm, I barely made it up and over the windowsill and out to my car. The alarms were still going and I could hear a police siren in the distance.

I couldn't be caught yet. Not until after I'd done the rest of what had to be done.

I leaped over the closed door of my car, placed the container in the passenger seat, and clocked out at sixty miles per hour, all in a matter of seconds. I could see the flashing lights in my mirror as I sped away and ducked down a side street.

One thing about the police: they don't give up when they're hot on the trail of a crook. But I don't give up, either, not when I have a job to do.

I made it back to the hospital and inside just seconds before they pulled in and chased after me. I heard one officer yell as I ran down the hall, my sneakers flying on the tiles and my summer coat swirling out behind me. I knew they wouldn't dare shoot in the hospital. And I wasn't about to stop.

I burst through the doors of the ICU, only belatedly realizing I didn't know Tony's room number. I peeked in one room, then another and a third, all without one Anthony Vincenzo.

"Come on, Tony," I said through gritted teeth. "Don't hide from me now." Once the police came through those doors too, it would be all over.

The brief thought struck me that maybe Tony wasn't in any of these rooms, that maybe he was already dead. But I refused to allow myself to dwell on it for too long. Now I had the nurses chasing after me too, and I'm pretty sure they weren't falling all over themselves wanting dates.

I ducked into a fourth room. That time it was the right one.

The sight of Tony lying in the bed, flushed and tortured from the poison rushing through his system, is something I never want to repeat. He looked dead right then. And for perhaps the only time in my life, I wanted him to get up and yell at me.

I rushed to the bedside and grabbed one of his limp, beefy hands. My own hands shaking, I pried open the box and reached for the scrap of cloth inside.

I hesitated, staring at it. I had come this far, but could I really take the final step, knowing that the cloth could heal Tony and no one else?

Yes, I could. And I would.

I gingerly placed the box on Tony's chest and brought his hand up to touch the cloth. I didn't dare lift the fragile cloth out to place it in Tony's hand. This would have to be good enough.

The doors burst open at that instant, with nurses and police officers crowded into the doorway. The officers squirmed inside and went to me, grabbing my arms and holding them back as they pulled me away from the bed.

I let them. I had done all that I could. Now all that was left was for Tony to heal and wake up. I wanted to see it, to know for certain that he was going to be alright, but when he was touching the cloth, surely there wouldn't be any further doubt.

They were snapping the handcuffs on me and reading me my rights when I saw Tony's skin color going back to normal. Soon his fingers jerked. He turned his head to the side, his eyes slowly opening. "Kolchak?"

I grinned, in spite of my current situation. "Tony, it's great to see you awake," I proclaimed.

"Awake? What's . . . Kolchak, why are the police carting you off?! What did you do this time?!" Tony started to rise up from the pillow. As he did so, his hand came away from the box, which clattered to the floor. He jumped a mile, staring at it, and then looked to his fingers. The last remaining dust of the cloth was on them.

He looked back up to me with a start. "Kolchak, you didn't."

"I did," I answered, solemnly and honestly. "And I don't have any regrets."

xxxx

I was being booked into jail when Tony arrived, followed closely by Brittany. She was breathless from running, angry and a bit confused.

"Why, Mr. Kolchak?!" she cried, blinking back the tears in her eyes. "Why did you do it?"

I looked up from where I was handing over all of my personal belongings to the desk sergeant. "Why, Brittany?" I looked to Tony, who was going for his wallet and probably wondering how much the bail was going to be this time.

She followed my gaze, watching as Tony fumbled with the bills. "Why?" Tony growled. "Because I was dying."

I looked to Brittany in all seriousness. "What would you have done, Brittany?" I asked, quietly. "Can you honestly say you wouldn't have done the same thing?"

She looked down, biting her lip. A tear splashed on her handbag.

". . . Drop the charges," she said at last.

The desk sergeant froze, stunned. "What?!"

She looked up again, resolute and understanding. "I want the charges dropped," she said. "That cloth brought hope to many people. Yes, Mr. Kolchak broke into the Art Institute and stole it. Yes, he used the last remaining bit of it for his own purposes. But he just wanted some of that hope for this man." She rested a hand on Tony's upper arm. "If it was someone close to me, and hope was so near in reach, I don't think I could have resisted, either."

The desk sergeant shook his head. "If you say so, Miss."

"I do."

The sergeant pushed the envelope back across the counter to me. I took it, relieving it of my personal property.

Several minutes later, Tony and I were walking out the doors of the police station. By now it was nearing dawn. The first strains of light were just appearing on the horizon.

"Carl . . ." Tony stopped on the stairs, turning to look at me. "You said you didn't have any regrets. Is that still true?"

I looked back. "Yeah, Tony, it's true." I paused. "Maybe you were right all along."

"_I_ was right?! You're admitting that _I_ was right about something?! About what?" Tony was staring at me as if I had just sprouted antennae and proclaimed myself a Martian.

"About the cloth," I said. "Maybe everyone was relying on it too much, including me. Maybe if I'd just stopped panicking and prayed, well . . . you might have had that healing anyway."

"Maybe," Tony said. "Or maybe . . ." He sighed, weighing his words. "Maybe God wanted you to use the cloth. Who knows. Like I said, I can't speak for Him."

"We probably never will know," I said. "Come on, Tony, let's find some breakfast before the workday starts."

"Okay. I could go for some bagels and cream cheese." Tony started going down the steps and then stopped again. "Wait a minute, you were panicking?"

"Why, of course." I slapped my hand on Tony's shoulder. "I couldn't bear to think of the monster I might get stuck with if anything happened to you, Vincenzo."

Tony rolled his eyes.

xxxx

And there, dear reader, you have the story in full, nothing left out. Tony is actually letting me write this one and put it on the wire.

Was it right or was it wrong to take the cloth? I don't know.

What I do know is that following that experience, there have continued to be miraculous healings. Some people say it's because of their faith and prayer. Some say that's why the cloth worked too, and that without faith in God, it wouldn't have.

I don't know that, either.

Not everyone has been recovering, of course. And for those who do, it isn't always immediate. Most of them still have to go through surgical or other procedures or take their medicine or allow time for wounds to heal.

But there are those cases now and then that make me wonder. I'm grateful that Tony was one of them.

I still don't have any regrets.


End file.
